


You Feel Good (I Knew You Would)

by Eugara



Series: Fleetwood!verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Angel Dean, Angel Sam, Dubious Consent Due to Vessel Issues, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-11 17:38:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4445588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eugara/pseuds/Eugara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reverse!verse AU.  After saving the Righteous Man from Hell, Dean is assigned as the man’s guardian.  But his brother, Sam, is tagging along for the ride...and the emotions of Dean’s human vessel might just prove a bit too much for him to handle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Feel Good (I Knew You Would)

_It’s strange_ —Dean thinks after the light finally clears. _Being trapped in a physical form like this._  

He’s never actually taken a vessel before—preferring to observe the strange naked apes from the safety of invisibility—but orders are orders. Dean _was_ the only angel to reach the Righteous Man after all. It makes sense that being the one to pull such an important soul out of Hell would rope him into playing babysitter afterwards. Which is actually a pretty impressive honor for a grunt like him. He just wishes he could do it in his own body, instead of being crammed into barely over six feet of flesh and muscle and bone. It’s like trying to shove a watermelon into a sippy cup. Like that Magic Bullet infomercial starring the cheesy soundstage family with the unhealthy smoothie obsession. He fights back a chuckle. Humans may be many things, but _damn_ does Dean love their pop culture. It’s the one thing he’d had in common with Gabriel before he fled the coop. Ah, well. No use crying over spilt milk. Or runaway siblings.

Dean sighs and waves the unpleasant thought away, smoothing his hands over his chest and taking a few strides over to the full-length mirror in the corner of the loft so that he can check out his vessel. And so that he can adjust to the feel of his new (and slightly bow-legged) gait. _Smith_ , the man’s called. Some corporate desk-jockey with too many neuroses to count, wasting his good years away on unpaid overtime and a backlog of investment accounts. Thankfully, the man had made enough use of his home gym on his sporadic days off that Dean is reasonably content with his physique. And the guy’s surprisingly attractive face more than makes up for any other minor flaws. Overall, Dean’s pretty impressed with his luck. It wouldn’t do to slum around in a subpar vessel when he’s one of the most impressive angels in the garrison. _The_ most impressive, really. ...Alright, so he’s a little vain. It ain’t the only sin that Dean ever-so-occasionally falls victim to—angel or no—but the majority of the battle is just admitting you have a problem in the first place, right? Isn’t that what the humans say? So, _really_ , he’s probably already more than halfway to godliness or whatever.

“Dean,” a masculine voice comes drifting out from behind him. It’s deeper than usual. More human than the soft, wistful tones that he’s used to washing over him like the tinkling of wind chimes. But he’d recognize it anywhere. Even without the telltale flutter of wings announcing his brother’s arrival.

Dean turns away from his perusal of his brand-spanking-new body to catch an eyeful of Sam, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest. There’s a hint of amusement sparkling in his multicolored eyes and Dean doesn’t have to be a mind-reader to know that it’s at his expense. “Oh, what?” he asks teasingly, gesturing up and down at his own torso. “You specifically go out and find the one guy on Earth who’s taller than this one?”

Sam breaks out into a grin at the affectionate jibe, the gesture cutting deep dimples into the sides of either cheek—and suddenly, Dean can’t find it in him to complain about his brother’s current meatsuit anymore. “Yeah?” Sam prods, humor shading his tone. “And what about you? Your vessel a model or something? ‘Cause you look like you plucked him straight out of a Banana Republic catalogue.”

“Careful, Sammy.” Dean tosses him a playful waggle of his eyebrows. “Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s rockin’ bod.”

His brother lets out an extremely _un_ -angelic snort at the mangling of the Word. “Pretty sure that’s not an official commandment.”

“It was number eleven,” Dean says with a mostly straight face. “Mel Brooks just happened to trip and break the third tablet.”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Sam responds sarcastically, but his eyes soften as he takes a few more steps into the room. Then his lingering smile slips away. By the time he’s close enough to touch, the mood is all but solemn. “I missed you,” he breathes out eventually, barely more than a whisper. His fingers reach out for Dean’s arm, but he doesn’t do more than lightly graze the tips over his shoulder. Like he’s terrified of him disappearing right under his hands. “I was so scared that I’d never see you again.”

“C’mon, man,” Dean scoffs, puffing out his chest a little. More for show than anything else. Trying to erase the worry lines suddenly crinkling up the broad spread of his brother’s forehead. “Like some second-string demon could take _me_ out.”

But Sam just shakes his head, his too-long hair swaying around his face at the motion. “So many angels died, Dean. I kept waiting—” He cuts off with a quiet inhale, and when he looks up, there are tears in his eyes. “I kept waiting to hear that you were one of them.”

“Hey, come on,” he says reassuringly. “It was a walk in the park.”

“It was _Hell_ , Dean.”

“Like I said.” The joke doesn’t get the reaction Dean was hoping for, so he drops the act instead. Reaches out to pull his brother down into his arms where he belongs. It’s a little awkward like this—their human bodies getting in the way of how their grace would usually swirl together at the edges—but Sam lets out a tiny sigh at the contact, melting against him in a fair imitation, and Dean can’t help but close his eyes and soak Sam up in return. Even if the extra few inches of height make it a bit more difficult than it normally is. It’s been ten years since he last saw his brother. A blip, really, considering their relative lifespans, but far longer than they’ve been apart in millennia. Dean would be perfectly content if they never had to be separated again.

“I should’ve gone with you,” Sam whispers into his hair, echoing his thoughts. “I should’ve been there, watching your back. Michael _knows_ we’re the best fighters in the garrison. It isn’t fair that he—” Sam cuts off again, more of a strangled noise this time. “It just isn’t fair,” he repeats sullenly.

“Dad put him in charge,” Dean says. _Again_. It’s roughly the four thousandth time they’ve had this conversation. He’d lost track somewhere around the mid-sixteenth century. “Michael knows what he’s doing. Plus, it’s what Dad wanted.”

“How could you possibly know what Dad wanted?” Sam snaps, pushing at Dean’s shoulders until he’s far enough away to glare. He can practically see the brilliant flare of his brother’s grace swirling behind his eyes. “You’ve never even met him. Almost no one has. This entire plan is—”

“ _Samuel_.”

His full name stops him short—Dean almost never uses it—and Sam drops his eyes and scuffs a foot against Smith’s hard wood flooring. “Yeah, alright,” he says quietly.

“Look...you’re here now,” Dean tries after a moment of clumsy silence. An olive branch, weak though it may be. “And wearing Tarzan.” He plucks at the ridiculous yellow fabric of Sam’s polo. “Geek Squad Tarzan.” That one gets a small laugh, and Dean can’t help but grin in return. “So Michael must have okayed you grabbing a vessel.”

Sam flicks his eyes up to meet Dean’s, the barest trace of smugness glinting in the hazel depths. “I sorta swore that I’d fly down here and steal one without permission if he didn’t let me help you with the Righteous Man stuff. Guess he figured it was easier to just approve if he didn’t want me making good on my threat.”

Dean tosses his head back with a full-bodied laugh at the confession. Smith’s voice is low and deep, and it rings out across the apartment, and it makes Sam smile again. And all of a sudden, Dean loves his new body. Loves the way it feels. Loves the way it can make Sam happy. He stretches up to wrap a hand around the back of his brother’s neck, and then tugs Sam down into a chaste kiss.

They’ve always done it this way. Just a light press of their lips to express affection. Granted, they were always closer than most of their other siblings. Sam was first placed in his arms during the raining fires of Sodom and Gomorrah—just the tiniest little fledgling at the time, his fluffy gray wings barely even functional—and Dean has had a fierce sense of protectiveness over his younger brother ever since. A burning need to keep him safe. To love him. Far more than anyone else he’s ever known. And sure, some of the other angels would remark on their particularly close relationship from time to time, but he and Sam were out of there as quick as angelically possible, so it didn’t really matter much anyway. Eschewing the bureaucracy of Heaven for the wilder, more visceral pleasures of the garrison and of Earth. Fighting when they were needed—not that there’d been much of a call for it after that Jesus kid had showed up—and traveling when they weren’t. Centuries of just observing the humans in their natural habitat. Watching awesome movies on the days Dean got to choose their itinerary, browsing the great libraries on the days Sam felt like dragging him through slow, torturous boredom. (Whatever. Sam has shitty taste in fun. Dean’s always known that. The guy’s still all broken up about Alexandria for fuck’s sake.) Making the most of the long stretches of time when they had nothing to do at all. When Dean could wrap Sam up in his wings and they could spend a lazy afternoon relaxing by the banks of the Tiber. When they could trade innocent kisses in the tall Serengeti grasses or at the peak of Mount Kilimanjaro. When they could look up at the glittering stars, high above the majesty of their Father’s greatest creation, and just for one, brief, suspended moment in time, feel small the way the humans do.

But despite every jaw-dropping wonder of the world they’ve visited and every awesome miracle of nature that they’ve seen over the years…Dean has never, _ever_ felt anything like this.

Sam is frozen where their lips are still touching, his back ramrod-stiff and every single muscle in his vessel’s impressive arms completely rigid. But the rest of him is trembling. His eyes had shot open in surprise the very second Dean had kissed him, wide with wonder and confusion, and Dean is almost entirely in the same boat. It feels… _different_. Touching Sam as a human. Way different. _Dangerously_ different.

Dean shifts just a hair backwards and Sam lets out a breathy noise of displeasure deep in his throat—and Smith’s cock twitches insistently in his expensive slacks. Dean swallows hard, absolutely terrified of staying put. Even more terrified of pulling away. Heat surges through him and Dean has no idea if the foreign sensation belongs to his vessel or to him. Or what he’s supposed to do with it. This is so beyond the realm of anything he’s ever even—

Sam makes the decision for him, slowly lifting up a hand to rest against the side of Dean’s face. He holds it there for a second, earnest gaze searching Dean’s to make sure he won’t shove him away, and then he moves in even closer. Their lips drag against one another’s, soft press of warmth, just like always, but there’s something _more_ to it this time. An underlying hunger. _Intent_. Dean gives into the feeling, parting his lips just enough for his tongue to sweep lightly against his brother’s, and Sam sucks in a sharp breath at the contact. Then he surges back against him, letting out a moan so sinful that Dean can feel the phantom echoes of Hell like the flames are still licking at his back.

“We shouldn’t,” he manages to whisper into his brother’s mouth. Scrambling to pull his wits together when all he wants is more, more, _more_. “This isn’t…”

“This isn’t what?” Sam finishes for him, pressing his vessel’s firm body flush against Dean’s as he squirms even closer.

Dean gasps at the feel of it. His mouth forming objections even as he’s tangling his fingers into Sam’s hair and tilting his head for a better angle. “This isn’t for us,” he answers, dipping into his brother’s mouth until he can catch and suck on Sam’s tongue. “It’s human. Must be.”

Sam shakes his head as best he can without dislodging their mouths. “I don’t feel human,” he says breathlessly. “I just feel like I want you. Want you closer. Want us together.”

His brother’s words send a bolt of hot _want_ shooting through his groin, and Dean groans as Smith’s erection throbs in time. “We’re together,” he says. “We are. I’m here, Sam. I’m back now and I ain’t leaving again. I promise.”

Sam lets out another plaintive noise, nodding against his mouth as he tries to plunge his tongue in even further. Practically licking at his tonsils. Good fucking thing Dean doesn’t need to breathe. “Okay,” he whispers eventually. Pulling back for a few more closed-mouth kisses, and then entirely. Leaving a lingering sense of _something_ hanging between them. Something unfinished. “You’re right, we should probably…” his gaze catches on Dean’s mouth again, eyes going fuzzy, “…focus.” Another shake of his head to clear his thoughts. “The Righteous Man, where is he?”

It takes Dean a few disjointed seconds to catch back up with the conversation thread. “Uh…hotel room in Illinois, about four hundred miles west of here.” He closes his eyes and stretches his senses out until he can get a bead on the guy. _Two human bodies. Only one human soul._  “And that _demon_ is with him,” he adds a little grumpily.

Sam nods again. “Yeah, we should go then.”

“Right,” Dean says. But he doesn’t sound that sure about it.

And Sam just stares at him for too long in return. An awkward sort of tension straining between them. “Right.”

There’s a flap of heavy wings, and then his brother is gone. Leaving him to play catch-up _en route_ to the motel. Maybe Sam needs the alone time to pull himself together.

Dean swallows again, his hand halfway up to his lips before he can stop himself. He can feel the blood rhythmically pulsing throughout every single inch of his vessel, his mouth is still tingling from where Sam was just pressed up against him, and he has absolutely no idea what the fuck just happened. Dean’s only been shoved into a human body for a little under twenty minutes and he’s already had his entire world flipped upside-down on him. How in the hell is he supposed to convince some guy to kick start the apocalypse when he’s just discovered one of the most amazing things that humanity has to offer? 

 _Fuck_ , Dean could really learn to like it here.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Fleetwood Mac's "Angel"


End file.
